In Spain, they were glad to see the back of him. There Jose Mourinho was
widely dismissed as an irritant on the face of the game, a vandal who had
wrought damage on its dignity.

In England, however, we appear only too thrilled that he has graced us once more with his favour. Indeed, such was the excitement when he walked into the Ron Harris Suite at Stamford Bridge to resume his role as Chelsea manager the only surprise was that among the several hundred representatives of the media gathered to offer excited homage no one actually swooned.

They are used to unveiling new managers at Chelsea. But it was not like this when Rafael Benítez was introduced. Frankly, Avram Grant could have conducted his first press conference in the snack bar at the back of the Shed. This time, however, what has become an annual event at Stamford Bridge had little sense of the routine. This was an occasion. Mourinho’s second coming attracted more than 250 journalists, 45 television crews and a flashmob of photographers, all jostling in the stadium’s biggest suite to bring

news of the prodigal’s return. This was the start of the sequel everyone connected with English football has been waiting for: The Special One Part Two.

When he arrived through a guard of honour of telephoto lenses, to stand in front of a sponsors’ board, holding up a Chelsea shirt, television news anchors would have been obliged to issue urgent warnings about flash photography. The room was alight. Not just in the crack of the camera bulbs, either. But in anticipation: this was a place filled with those giddy at the prospect of just being there, reporting on the return of box office to the Premier League. Because this is what Mourinho represents to the English game: to a competition which had lost some of its lustre latterly, which has seen the centre of gravity shift first to Spain, then to Germany, he offers hint of revival. As the man testing the public address system put it before his arrival “welcome to the main event”.

And if we were pleased to see him, Mourinho insisted the feeling was mutual. His hair recently trimmed back to what he calls its “fighting length”, wearing a black suit, tie loosened at the collar and canvas deck shoes – but with no sign of that coat which had first set female hearts a flutter – he spoke at length of his delight at resuming his place at the Bridge. “If I want to choose a nickname, I would choose the Happy One,” he said. “I am where I want to be. I would not change it for anything. This is the job I want.”

Never mind that a bigger opportunity had been briefly available at Manchester United, never mind that Chelsea’s owner had made strenuous efforts to lure Pep Guardiola, never mind that Manchester City prefer to employ a bloke who has won nothing, he said he was thrilled to be back.

As he talked about affection, happiness, about reaching 50 with his financial ambitions replaced by a desire for stability, commitment and mutual love, he sounded like a middle-aged internet dater suddenly discovering an old girlfriend had just logged on. Although oddly, even as he cooed, he looked more sombre than a Lisbon undertaker.

Barely a smile broke his lips for the first 10 minutes. And when it came – in an answer about how the English press were not the worst he has dealt with – the flicker was momentary. This, his appearance insisted, was not a moment for levity. This was a time for the solemn renewal of vows.

It was certainly not the occasion for any sign of the old Mourinho snarl. The prickly, provocative figure that had so upset Andrés Iniesta and the hierarchy at Barcelona, not to mention those in the expensive seats at the Bernabéu, was entirely absent. He refused all invitation to issue any pointed verbal barbs about his former sparring partners like Benítez and Arsène Wenger (though if you listened carefully, there was enough between the lines to suggest his attitude had not much softened). Indeed, he evinced such emollient good will he even went out of his way to be solicitous to the Belgians.

“Because you are Belgian, I don’t want you to go away without a story,” he said to a reporter asking about Romelu Lukaku’s prospects under his management. And as Mourinho reassured him that Lukaku indeed had a future, the man beamed as if he had just benefited from a papal blessing. Brussels had its headline and the journalist had his moment.

The question that filled the room after he left, shaking hands and nodding in recognition at many an apparently familiar face, is how long all this will last. How long before the snap returns. How long before the hints of paranoia reappear. How long before the mask of calm cracks. November was the favourite bet. Though some wagered it would be earlier still.

But then, on a June afternoon, it was first impressions that counted. And the first impression he gave here on his second coming was significant: mature, grown-up, this was a man returning home after having his mind broadened by travel. The Spaniards may accuse Mourinho of many crimes, but one thing nobody can suggest about him is that he is stupid. He returns to a club where – in part because of what he delivered in his first term – expectations are higher than a Sheikh’s racehorse.

He will need allies if he is to survive the next couple of years. And his first engagement with the press reminded those who have been starved of it for so long since his departure back in 2007, of exactly what charisma looks like. It was a reminder to Roman Abramovich, too, of what he brings: he puts the Russian’s club at the centre of the national conversation.

It may have been an act, all this smooth dignity, but on the television news and in the newspaper headlines, it will have worked. Of this there can be no doubt: as he himself insisted, there remains more than a touch of the special about Jose Mourinho.